No Formula
by MelaninRich
Summary: In which two physicists learn that not all of life's mysteries can be solved with a sequence of numbers. Comic/MCU mash-up.
1. 1

What's up, Panther fans?

I, along with 99% of the world, I'm sure, was absolutely geeked to see the Black Panther movie and even more pleased with the finished product. I started writing this story before seeing the movie due to my fascination with T'Challa's/Black Panther's various adventures in the comics. As a result, this is going to be a wacky mix of the comics (with emphasis on **The Man Without Fear** ) and MCU. You'll see why later…

* * *

 **NO FORMULA**

* * *

* _Sigh_ *. Y'know…for a person with two master's degrees and one doctorate degree, I'm not that smart sometimes.

Picture this: a single young lady, noticeably stranded, wandering the streets of Hell's Kitchen carrying a briefcase full of patents and a hundred dollars and change in her wallet. A walking lick who should know better considering she was raised in Brooklyn, along with her previous knowledge of this area!

I need a ride home—which, for the record, I _had_ until my Uber driver punked out and left because I was _30 seconds late_. Hell…can't say I blame…Raheem (driver's name according to the app). Hell's Kitchen after dark is nothin' to mess around with.

I duck into a random restaurant to schedule another ride. It's a decent-looking place with checkerboard laminate flooring, blood red tables and leather booths, and dim, red-tinted lighting to match. The wait staff are casually dressed in all black apart from the logo printed on aprons and shirts—kitschy cursive letters winding around into a pitchfork: "Devil's Kitchen."

The hostess ushers me into a corner booth, drops off a menu and goes on about her business. A quick scan of the place shows that the traffic is starting to pick up—most of the patrons appear to be the run-of-the-mill street-runners and suited-up thugs you'd come to expect in this part of town. I notice that I almost have a perfect vantage point of the goings on, while still being tucked away in privacy. Seeing as I'm currently the only female patron in here, I wonder if that's deliberate.

My purse nearly topples over as I search for my phone, and my lipstick clatters to the floor underneath the table before I can catch it.

"Stupid…" I duck under the table to grab it before it rolls away, pop back up—

" _Geez!"_

I nearly jump out of my skin, jarring the table with my knees (which I'm sure I'll feel once the adrenaline wears off) and knocking my glasses askew.

That _man_ was not standing there a _nanosecond_ ago! I didn't even hear him walk up! To make matters worse, he doesn't seem the least bit bothered by my reaction, and now the whole restaurant is craning their heads in our direction trying to see where the commotion's coming from. Fuck My Life.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he speaks in accented English. I can tell he's trying not to laugh. Even better.

"No worries," I grumble, still trying to get my specs straight.

"What can I get for you?"

"Umm…" Damn; didn't even get a chance to look at the menu. Not like I was planning on staying long. "I don't…what do you recommend?"

"Something for your nerves."

My head snaps up and, for the first time, I make sure to get a good look at him. My initial assessment was correct. African. Probably South African, if I had to guess. About 6-foot. Solid muscle. Rich chocolate skin and an impeccably groomed beard. Hair in small, perfectly symmetrical knots. In other words: _Damn._ I can't even clap back with a witty retort. My body's still on pins and needles from the scare, and now _this_. Instead, I utter: "Such as…?"

"A cup of tea should do the trick." _I would've gone for a shot of whiskey, but I still have work to do once I get home…_

"Um…yeah, sure." My eye suddenly catches an item on the menu that I do not expect. "Mind if I try some of that sweet potato pie, too?"

"Of course; coming right up," he bows his head slightly before heading towards the kitchen. His back is turned to me now, so I go ahead and openly gape for a few seconds. His face; those eyes; that voice! And, let's be frank: _dat ass!_ The way he strides across the room like royalty…! I'm pretty sure Africans can't help themselves in that regard, being the original kings and queens and all that…

The search for a new Uber driver is put on the back burner for now. I ordered tea and pie, so I might as well sit and enjoy it. While I'm waiting, I check Orion's stock performance; review the next mission schedule; make sure everything's ready for that stupid board meeting in a couple of days. Actually, I shouldn't call it stupid. More like a necessary evil. I'm well aware that I need to keep abreast of the business side of things in order to keep my company afloat—doesn't mean I like dealing with those types of things. I do recognize the correlation between happy stakeholders/shareholders and the injection of capital/collateral needed to do my thing: Explore. Create. Innovate.

"I thought I'd announce my arrival ahead of time!" I hear Mr. African King call as he rounds the corner, cup of tea and plated pie in each hand. "We certainly don't want a lawsuit brought on by an accidental scalding."

"We most certainly don't! Thanks." The aroma from the tea is soothing, actually. And I'm about to _murder_ this pie.

The first sip of the earthy, lightly sweetened brew is unexpectedly good! Rooibos? Valerian, maybe? I take another sip, and that's when I hear it: _boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom_. My heartbeat. Not out of control, just…my normal, resting heart rate. And…I hold my breath for a moment to discern if that secondary sound is what I think it is. Sure enough, the steady rhythm falters and I release my breath, the sound rushing through my ears.

I really should be freaking out right about now. Why aren't I? I can see everything going on around me but I can only focus on my heartbeat and my breathing. My amygdala…my serotonin receptors…I can sense exactly what they're doing. Intimately so. I swear I can _feel_ the neurons firing. No warning bells or "spidey sense". It's as if I have no concept of fear.

"I was born April 12, 1989," I whisper to myself…not a truth serum. I was born in '87. God, my tongue feels so _loose!_ "She sells seashells by the seashore she sells seashells by the seashore…way too easy." Remaining seated, I wiggle my fingers and toes, squeeze my quads, flex my biceps…muscles are relaxed but fully functional. I take another sip of "tea" …still good. I eat a bite of pie. _Amazing._

"Is everything to your liking?" The fact that I can hear his footsteps for the first time tonight is not lost on me.

"It's all great. Question, though: why did you drug me? Is it compulsory—where you tell me to do something and I have no choice but to do it?"

"Stand," he commands.

Hm…while his sudden authoritativeness is kind of a turn on, I still bristle. "You could say 'please'."

"Does that answer your question?" he smirks, lips cocked to the side.

 _Touché_. "I guess it does."

"May I sit?"

"Won't you get in trouble for that?"

"I think a manager is entitled to a 15-minute break every now and then."

That explains the designer slacks and shoes. I thought they were a bit formal for kitchen duty.

"I'm just covering for two of my employees until the next rotation starts. Ah! Speak of the devil. Good evening, Ivan; Sofija; Brian."

"Hey, Boss!" they all chime as they quickly head for the break room behind us.

"How long have you been running this place, Mr. …?"

"Okonkwo. Charles Okonkwo. And you are Ms. Dorinda Knight."

Huh. Still no warning bells. "Excuse me…but how do you know my—"

"I've followed your career for quite some time. One of the brightest minds of our generation, truly. They still reference your research papers for MIT in the Engineering Science department at Oxford."

 _MIT? Good Lord. I must've been 16 or 17 years old when those were written!_

"I must tell you how much I admire your efforts to provide opportunities to underprivileged youths and minority scientists. On behalf of my country, I extend our gratitude."

Normally, I'd be flustered, I'm sure. Instead, I confidently shake his extended hand—calloused, yet tender—and reply: "No thanks necessary. I'm just…doing what's right."

I slowly withdraw my hand before it gets awkward. I'm fairly certain if I put my mind to it, I could map every groove of his fingerprints right now. That's how crazy this brew is.

"Where are you from, Mr. Okonkwo—if you don't mind my asking?"

"Please, call me Charles."

"Only if you call me Dolly." _Okay, this is bordering on ridiculous, now_. And yet, I'm still drinking this "tea", listening to my breath; his voice; my heartbeat…

"Fair enough, Dolly. I recently immigrated from the Congo. London is nice, but I wanted to see what opportunities living in America would bring."

"Yes, you mentioned Oxford earlier…?"

"I earned my Ph.D. in Physics from there. For a brief time, I went back home, but curiosity—along with a bit of friendly cajoling, I'll admit—won out. Now I'm here contemplating the next step of my journey."

"I see. What do you see yourself doing?"

"I'm quite interested in teaching, perhaps at the secondary level—what you'd call 'high school'…"

" _Yes!_ Teaching is so much fun," I grin, a flame inside of me immediately igniting. Quite often, I'll lecture at high schools—usually in poor or inner-city areas—free of charge. One would be surprised at how many brilliant minds are out there just waiting to be discovered. Mr. Okonkwo over here seems like he would be an excellent teacher—wise eyes, boyish smile and the ability to command the attention of everyone in the room. I know I'd be all eyes and ears if I were in his class.

"Enough about me. Now that I have you here…I'd love to know your thoughts on astrodynamics as it relates to probability amplitudes and macroscopic behavior. Have they changed much since your time at MIT?"

Well, what'dya know? A man after my own heart.

God, I'm such a square.

Another cup of _whatever_ and a delicious chicken Caesar salad later, I finally take note of the time. The anxiety of realizing how late it is never makes an appearance. Stimulating scientific discussion seems to make the time fly by, and I'm not sorry for it. Mr. Okonkwo…Charles…most definitely knows his shit. I make a mental note to research some of his articles later. Maybe I can (snatch him up before another company jumps on him) offer him a job.

"It's almost midnight; I really should be going…" I muse after a much-needed stretch.

"Should you?"

"…Trust me, I would love nothing more than to talk about relativistic kinetic energy, but I have a ton of work waiting for me at home."

"Ah, yes. Where would Orion Industries be without the efforts of its fearless leader?" At the sight of my sardonic eyebrow raise, he relents, chuckling good-naturedly. "I understand. Please excuse me while I call you a cab."

I watch as he disappears into the breakroom while simultaneously counting beats per minute since I can still hear it. _1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9...10…11…12…13…14…15…_ I stop counting after 45 seconds due to his swift return.

"The cab should be here in 5 minutes."

"You actually got a cab to come here at this time of night?"

"I'm sure the flat-rate fee I offered was more than enough incentive to send someone."

I'm dumbstruck. "What?" Mr. Oko— _Charles._ You didn't have to do that—"

"It is no trouble. I kept you out at this hour; I insist on making sure you get home safely," he declares in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

"Well—can I at least pay you back?"

"I don't want your money," he replies, his gaze intensifying for a split second. "Perhaps dinner would be a suitable alternative?"

 _Thank God. I thought you'd never ask!_ "Okay, but only if I can pick up the check since you took care of mine tonight. Deal?"

"Deal." Instead of shaking my hand as I expect him to, he kisses my knuckles in such a genteel way that I can't help but feel like a Disney™ princess. All that's missing is the overdone ball gown and animal sidekick. My heart rate is slightly elevated as he informs me that my ride is here and bids me a good evening. I'm hyper-aware of my gait and my posture—that's the _only_ reason I don't trip over my feet as I duck down into the cab. I even manage a cute little finger wave; you know, the kind where you just wiggle your fingers back and forth as if to say "Toodles!" He smiles warmly, his white teeth stark against his dark skin, and waves more…manly.

It isn't until we reach Chelsea that I realize he never did tell me what I was sipping on all night. If I survive digestion and absorption, I'm assuming we'll just call it good…?

* * *

Please let me know what you think!


	2. 2

"Hey, Dorinda."

"Murdock! Where are you?!" I blurt out a little more aggressively than I intended.

"Doesn't matter. I'm safe," his voice crackles over the spotty connection. I've got half a mind to do a quick trace on his ass. Wishful thinking that I'd actually find him, as good as he is.

"...You don't have to do this, Murdock. You don't," I state as firmly as I can, even though I know my words are lost on him.

"You really believe that?"

I sure want to. But that Shadowland business was...ugly. It was naive of me to think that he could jump right back into protector mode after that ordeal--he's a superhero, but he's still human.

"Are you ever coming back? Who's gonna protect Hell's Kitchen now?" I question before I can stop myself. I'm honestly not trying to guilt-trip him. It's just...with Daredevil gone, I'm sure the bad guys are prepping for a free-for-all.

"It's taken care of."

Alright, Cryptic.

"I saw that Foggy got those patents registered. You're in good hands with him."

The unspoken 'How is he?' hangs heavily between us. "Yeah, I know. He's a sharp guy...Listen, Murdock..."

"Yep."

"Take care of yourself. I mean it."

"Yes, Mother."

"You got the nerve to get smart with me; don't make me come after you," I mutter.

"Gotta catch me first." _Click!_

Bastard.

I delete the number he used from my phone log, confident that it was untraceable if ever retrieved, then I pull up another contact to call: Tin Man.

"Doll Face!"

"Tony!" I greet through gritted teeth, hackles already rising. "Question for you--"

"If you're asking for your time slot to be moved, I can't help you, kiddo. The Expo committee is showing no mercy this year."

"As if I ever needed to reschedule in the first place. Honestly, your insinuation of a lack of preparedness on my end is most unappreciated. And that's not why I'm calling, anyway."

"Well, forgive me, _Ms. Knight._ But can you get on with it? I have a deep tissue massage in a few minutes."

"Murdock just ghosted us. I asked him who's watching over Hell's Kitchen and he got all cryptic on me. Do _you_ know anything?"

"Can't say I do. Matt's been through the ringer lately, but I doubt he'd leave Hell's Kitchen without a suitable replacement. Man's never been a flake...with the exception of disappearing without a trace, but I digress. I'm sure everything will be fine. Gretchen's here; I gotta go. _Hej da!" Click!_

Guess it's Hang Up On Dolly Day.

I leave for Death Valley in three days to work on some leads and then fly up to the Nebula for the Stark Expo presentation. With the patents registered, I can finally reveal some of the things I've been working on, which I'm pretty excited about. I do have Foggy and "The Ghost" to thank for that, so I guess I can cut them some slack.

But before that: dinner in Koreatown with a certain restaurant manager.

I stress over what to wear a little longer than I usually do before telling myself to get over it and wear whatever the hell I feel like wearing. I settle for an off-shoulder graphic tee with my typical splashes of color, dark skinny jeans, flats and my Afro wrapped in a bright headscarf (hey, you say "lazy", I say "fashion...oh, and fuck off.") I'm obviously feeling saucy today, so I go for the red frames for my glasses.

To my slight dismay, I see him standing outside of Jongro, looking casually sharp in a black leather jacket and designer jeans. I'm not late, but I (wanted to make an entrance) didn't want to keep him waiting. I tip my Uber driver and climb out, heartened by his smile once he spots me.

"Hi!" I go with my first instinct and hope it's not an overstep: I hug him. It's brief, platonic and, luckily, returned.

"Hello, Dolly; it is nice to see you again! You look lovely."

"Thanks; so do you! Love this jacket!" I compliment with a playful pop of his lapel.

He chuckles, low and deep. "Ah, thank you."

"Were you waiting long??"

"Not at all! Shall we?"

Like the gentleman he is, he opens the door and pulls out my chair for me once we're guided to a table. In between courses, we talk about everything under the sun. Quantum mechanics. Nuclear fusion. Shortcomings of NASA. Football (World, not American). Jiu-Jitsu (in which he suggests we train together sometime and I flat out refuse to get my ass kicked by him). Favorite music artists. Favorite visual artists. The upcoming Stark Expo. The new "bright minds" on the come-up. My little brother's newly awarded Formula One World Champion Constructor title. Charles's studies abroad serving as a pseudo rite of passage. His necklace: a gold pendant shaped like a tooth, passed down from generation to generation. His vow to make his family and community proud. He doesn't get into details about life back home, which isn't surprising. I don't press him, either. I do wonder why he'd jump out of the frying pan and into the fire, so to speak. Maybe Hell's Kitchen is child's play compared to the Congo.

I pick up the tab as promised. Charles seems to balk at the total, but what's the use of being CEO if you can't splurge on dinner every now and then?

"Thank you for dinner--" he stops to kiss my hand, making me blush like a school girl--"and for the pleasure of your company."

"No problem; I had fun! We should do this again sometime. Can I call you once I'm back on Earth?"

A flash of bemusement sweeps across his features. "Dolly, you may call me anytime you'd like." _He forgot to add, "Silly girl..."_

"Be careful what you wish for--you might get a 3 AM phone call one of these times!" Then I realize exactly how that sounds. Still a little buzzed from the soju, I do a face palm, barely containing my chortles. "That's _not_ what I meant...!"

" _Tsk tsk tsk_ , what a pity!" Charles teases, gracious enough to let my faux pas slide. The soju only has me mildly embarrassed, but whatever. I said what I said. "Good luck on your presentation. I shall be watching."

No pressure or anything.

"Good deal!" I lay a kiss on his jawline and wave goodbye, feeling giddy and light--punchdrunk. Seriously, I could skip home. Oh, my God, I had the _best_ time! It's so refreshing to have a decent conversation with a man that doesn't center around science (although he's _brilliant_ in that regard) and have it flow so seamlessly! Do we know each other's life story? No. Are we well on our way to getting to know each other? Yes. Am I looking forward to more dinners and maybe even some lunches thrown in from time to time? Absolutely.

...I kissed him on the cheek, didn't I...? Yeah, I can still feel the tickle of his beard on my lips... Perhaps I shouldn't have done that. It might have been forward...or maybe even unwanted? I'd hugged him when I first showed up--was that too forward and he didn't say anything to keep it from being awkward? What was his face like after I pecked him? He was smiling, right? God, it was such a blur...guess it doesn't matter. The main thing is I have got to get a hold of myself! He might not even be checking for me like that and here I am, acting all "loosey goosey" as my late grandmother would say. Next time I see him...it's gonna be all business.


	3. 3

The presentation for the Stark Expo is streamed live from the Nebula Space Station, and our rainbow coalition crew of 14, hailing from all corners of the planet, show off some new developments and take audience questions from Tony, consultant-turned-moderator. Tony's more concerned about the conductors that help create the antimatter artificial gravity and how our human test trials for the effects of AG are going, but, overall, the discussion is diverse and vigorous. What I didn't expect was the award for Philanthropist of the Year—which comes with a _very_ large monetary prize to be used towards continued philanthropic efforts. Man, if my lectures weren't lit before! I'm also excited to have the ability to award more scholarships to those who need them. It's moments like these when I'm reminded that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing.

A new rotation is coming up here, so I'm taking half of the crew home in the X-5 so the next group of 7 can replace them. In another three or so months, the other half that stayed behind get to go home and a new group of 7 joins the crew. Everyone gets a turn.

We blast music, take pictures and videos for the Nebula's official Twitter, Facebook and Instagram accounts, pack up the experiments that need to go back to Earth, program monitors for the experiments still in progress, and then I fly us home. I already miss my Nebula, but I'm pretty sure I'm the only one feeling this way—I might be singing a different tune if I was up there for three months.

I answer the congratulatory messages from my parents and my brother as soon as I'm back on Earth. We're scattered right now, so even a short group Skype is worth its weight in gold to me. I leave the X-5 in the Death Valley hangar, fly my personal jet back to my airfield in upstate New York and then catch a ride back to my Brooklyn loft in one of those sleek black Navigators (mainly so I can stretch out in the back and sleep). Once I'm home, I start playing catch up. Phone calls, article reviews, research proposals…

Foggy calls to congratulate me and I goad him into meeting me for a boozy lunch the following day—I can hear the weariness in his voice plain as day and I automatically feel for him. I mean…his best friend tried to kill him, and this is after he'd made the tough decision to take him out before he did too much damage…like I said before: ugly business.

When we meet up, however, he's all smiles. Some of it is bravado, I can tell, but he also seems genuinely relieved to be out and about among the living ("I swear I've been chained to my desk since last Tuesday!" he laments before downing the last of his Scotch). Our "working lunch" is mainly focused on how to best allocate the prize money I just won. I meet with my financial advisor tomorrow, but Foggy wants to look at some of the trust language before drafting an initial proposal.

 _Bzzzzzzz!_

I absentmindedly pull out my phone and read the notification.

 **Charles**

 **Congratulations on a brilliant presentation and a well-deserved award! Dinner later this week?**

Awwww… and yes, I read his text in his accent.

"Who's got you grinnin' like a teenager over there?" Foggy asks through a mouthful of arugula.

"…just this guy I've been hangin' out with. Nothin' major."

"…As a lawyer, you know I can smell bullshit from a mile away, including yours…you know that, right?"

I have the sense to at least pretend I'm ashamed, but my smile still breaks through. I can't erase the fluttering I felt in my chest once I saw his name pop up on the screen. Plus, he suggested dinner! Hopefully this means I didn't put him off from the last time I saw him.

"Do I know this guy?"

The gears start turning. "Um, maybe! He's the manager of that Devil's Kitchen diner over on 57th and 10th?"

"I think I know who you're talkin' about—tall African guy?"

"That's him."

"Yeah, I eat at that diner every now and then. Seems like a nice guy—runs a tight ship; takes care of his patrons…"

"And he's a physicist," I nearly swoon, causing Foggy to roll his eyes with a snort.

"God, whatever happened to the old days where girls went for the quarterbacks and playboy millionaires? When brawns and money actually _meant_ something? Nowadays, if you didn't graduate at the top of your class from some bloated think tank and make it out with at least 2 doctorates, they don't want you. What the hell is the world coming to?"

I chuck one of my French fries at him, which bounces off his water glass and lands smack dab in the middle of his salad. "Sure, tempt a man on a diet, why don't ya?" he grumbles half-heartedly.

"Sorry!" _Not really._

I don't go into too much detail about our interactions, especially the first one where he may or may not have drugged me. I doubt that would endear him to Charles very much. But, by the end of it, I'm done trying to play it off: I really like this dude. To my surprise, Foggy doesn't give me a bunch of shit like I thought he would. He simply wishes me…"us" … well.

I think it's Foggy's "blessing" that has me making an impromptu trip to Hell's Kitchen later that evening. I just have the urge to see his kind smile and hear him cast magic with that intoxicating voice of his…that man can talk about what he had for breakfast and make it sound like a tale for the ages. He reminds me of my Dad in that regard—both have very distinct voices. Speaking of intoxicating though…I'm not drunk, but that might explain the split decision to drop by: a little liquid courage. It's dark by the time I reach 57th, but I'm only a block away from the restaurant. I'm fairly certain I can make it there without any trouble.

"Hey there."

"Hello."

"You're a brave little thing, walkin' out here all alone…ain't ya?"

 _Just keep walking._ "Guess so." _Almost there._

Next thing I know, two linebacker-sized guys pop out of the alley like Jack-In-The-Box clowns, blocking the entire sidewalk. _Stay calm…_

"Listen, I don't want any trouble," I address the two giants impeding my way out. "I'm just trying to catch my Uber riiiiiiight over there." I point to a red Audi parked just up the way.

Luckily for me, the guy to my left's eyes follow the direction of my finger.

I bolt, barely skirting past him. The wind leaves my body in a sharp grunt as my shoulder clips his side. The man who initially got my attention is not havin' it…unfortunately, he's much faster than his counterparts.

My cry for help is silenced by his meaty hand as he grabs my arm and twists it to the point of a guaranteed shoulder dislocation if I make one wrong move. _Don't panic. Don't panic._ As me marches me into the alley, I see two more men lurking in the darkness. No side doors into either of the buildings, but the alley's divided by a chain link fence covered with tarp. Dumpster right beside it. Okay, there's a couple of options…

"If you're gonna rob me, get it over with," I manage to snarl through the guy's fingers. I would bite 'em, but the path to the fence isn't clear yet…

"I don't want your money, sweetheart. I want information. Give it to me…and your death will be quick and clean." _Well, shit. That accent sure came out of nowhere! Russian? No, not quite…maybe Eastern European?_ "The more you lie, the more fun we get to have…Where's your lawyer?"

I can't help it. My eyebrows furrow. "Wait… One: which lawyer are you talking about and two: are you asking just to make small talk or is that the information you want?"

"Old Country" guy snickers to himself…then… _SMACK!_ My vision is swimming after he swiftly backhands me—a combination of being hit _right_ in the eye (motherfucker just _had_ to wear a ring!) and losing my glasses. The linebackers yank me back up to a standing position, which makes my head spin even more.

"Wow…I thought for sure these would break…" He huffs his hot breath on my lenses and buffs them against his button-up shirt. "There," he pushes my glasses up my nose and tucks my hair behind the arms of the frames, "no worse for wear."

"Thank you," I sniff.

"You're welcome. And, for the record, I was asking for information about Matthew Murdock's whereabouts, specifically."

Oh. At least that's cleared up.

"I don't know where he is." Truth. Cut and dry. Which is rewarded with a punch to my ribs. My breath is immediately stolen from me and I fight the urge to hurl; to sob; to crumple into myself from the pain. Last I heard, Murdock hadn't pissed off any Eastern Europeans. Are they looking for Daredevil? Who else knows about his secret identity? Left over faction of the Kingpin's guys?

"Old Country" tilts my chin up to look me square in the (non-swelling) eye. "I can see the wheels turning in your pretty little head…but my patience is wearing thin." He whips out a pistol and shoves the barrel into my shoulder socket. Uh-oh… He _definitely_ means business. "If you—"

 _Whoosh._

The movement out of the corner of my eye whips past so quickly I swear I imagined it.

"What the hell was that?"

We all freeze, straining our ears trying to hear it again…kind of comical that they were beating the shit out of me a few minutes prior and now we're all on the same page, tuned into the same thing. Save for the normal sounds of the city, all is quiet.

"I don't—"

 _Whoosh!_ **_"Aaagh!"_**

Where'd the guy to my left go?!

A flash of black and silver. Then, all hell breaks loose.

My assailants are now scattered around the alley, firing at will. The quiet of the night is now shattered by the deafening pops of semi-automatic gunfire. The muzzle flashes illuminate the alley like strobe lights, revealing disjointed glimpses of the chaos. Yelling. Bodies hitting the brick walls and asphalt with sickening thuds. I dive behind the dumpster seconds before a bullet ricochets off something unidentifiable and makes its home right where I'd been standing a second ago. The volley of bullets is striking closer and closer—I can't take cover here for much longer!

For a moment, the pandemonium shifts away from my hiding space. A moment's all I need.

I grit my teeth against the excruciating pain in my side as I scramble over the chain link fence like a damn alley cat. My landing is rough, but my quick recovery is fueled by pure adrenaline. The pain is taking a backseat to the need to get the hell away from here before I get shot or more of the goon squad comes after me—

 _Whoosh!_

The silent impact of the figure landing from what must've been a 30-foot leap stops me cold. Tall. Pitch black. Decidedly male. Pointed ears…?

I stumble backwards in my haste to get away, tripping over my feet and completely losing my balance. _Fuck! This is gonna hurt!_

Except it doesn't. In fact, the only contact I make with the ground is with my eyes. My face is mere inches from the asphalt. Before I can fully process that the only thing keeping me from face-planting is this figure's grip on the back of my jacket, I'm in his arms. A quick glance in the direction I ran from confirms what I simultaneously hoped for and dreaded: silence. No yelling. No movement. What did he…how…?

Another mighty leap has us soaring above the alley and flying over the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen. Not _technically_ flying, but man, this dude can jump! He's going so high and running so fast that I have no choice but to squeeze my eyes shut and hold on for dear life to keep my wits about me. I'm expecting each landing to rattle my bones and aggravate my ribs, but it seems like his feet only ghost the ground before he's up again…

I hear what sounds like knives being unsheathed and crack my eyes open. The wind's not whipping through my ears like before.

We're on a wall. A brick wall. A very high brick wall.

"Shit!" I freak, clenching my legs around his waist. He tenses—goddammit, I'm gonna make us fall! Calm the hell down and keep still!

And then he's moving again, scaling the brick wall using his…claws. Yes. Claws that cut through the brick wall like it's butter. I can see the occasional glint of moonlight reflecting off them as he climbs, motions strong, sure and languid. Like a cat or something. We hang precariously above a window ledge (probably more precarious for him since he's holding onto the wall with one hand/paw and lowering me into the building with the other. Goddamn, he's strong!

I retreat a little further into what must be an abandoned warehouse or storage space, judging by the stacks of pallets scattered around. "Claws" effortlessly swings in through the open window, landing without a single sound. I take two spontaneous steps back as he just…stands there…blending in perfectly with the shadows. My heart is pounding out of my chest at the visual. I should run. I should grab the nearest 2x4 and start swinging.

 _He took out those men. He saved your life._

Two steps into the moonlight reveal…something absolutely, impossibly _extraordinary_.

I know "enhanced human" gear when I see it, but _this_ …

The suit is black with flashes of silver—including the "eyes" and a neckpiece that looks like animal teeth. The material is nothing I've ever seen before. I'm reaching forward to touch it before I can stop myself. Some type of mesh…electromagnetic, maybe? I can feel the energy buzzing against my palm. I also feel…familiarity. Like I've worked with it before…or possibly the raw form of it?

"This is incredible."

Who made this? What made this? Are his enhanced abilities a byproduct of the suit or is the suit a conduit for underlying powers? I squeeze his bicep, spellbound by the wave of energy that pulses through my fingertips…the muscle beneath flexes slightly—

I'm squeezing the arm of a masked stranger on the top floor of an abandoned building where no one can hear me scream.

"I'm sorry," I withdraw my hand as if I'd been burned.

Silence.

His hand, sans claws, drifts toward my face. My blood freezes.

What if the savior is actually the assassin?

What if he brought me here to finish the job, no witnesses?

I recoil, but his palm is already cupping my cheek. Who am I kidding? This dude could _walk_ me down—forget running. Tears begin to well in my eyes at the utter hopelessness of the situation.

"Please…ow!"

The stranger slowly lowers his hand…and then brushes right past me. The throb in my eye and cheek returns with a vengeance. With the adrenaline ebbing again after that brief fight-or-flight spike, my ribs are 10 times worse. I collapse against a nearby support beam; I can't even sit down. Every breath is a struggle again. Briefly, I wonder if I have an orbital fracture…more than likely not. I can still see through that eye.

He emerges from the shadows like black ink spilling onto paper, making my breath hitch. _Goddamn, that hurt…!_ In his hands is a small black box. Inconspicuous at first glance, but of course there's more than meets the eye: about a dozen expandable compartments packed with…medical supplies. He unscrews the lid off a small glass jar filled with this blue goop, and the soothing smell of herbs permeates the air. I watch, transfixed, as he dips a cotton ball in and…starts tending to my eye. I only feel the initial pain from contact…then, nothing. Some sort of numbing agent? Whatever it is, the relief is instant. While I'm trying to discern potential ingredients from the odor, he's reaching for the hem of my shirt.

I shrink a little…then drop my hands. _Relax. It's just basic first aid. He's only trying to help you._ His free hand is raised in the universal "I come in peace" gesture, proving that I really am that transparent.

"Please…" I steel myself for the inevitable agony coming my way. "Just hurry, okay?" God, I don't even wanna look!

The first jolt of pain makes me flinch…then, I feel the gentle crackle of electricity against my skin. His hand rocks back and forth as he kneads –almost as if he is trying to evenly distribute the pain and swelling? Whatever he's doing, it's working! Once he's satisfied, he presses what looks like a nicotine or birth control patch to the affected area—it smells like the blue goop.

"So you're the new Man Without Fear."

His head slowly rises, silver "cat eyes" glinting almost curiously.

"He said someone was taking over for him, but he never mentioned who."

Silence.

"Do I know you?"

More silence.

"It's cool if I do; obviously, you're not the only enhanced human I've met."

Nada.

It's times like these where I question my reality.

No, really.

I'm having a staring contest with…Cat-Man. How is this _real_?

"Well…In any case: thank you. Thanks for taking over for him, too. I'll feel a lot safer going through these parts now."

Cat Man inclines his head a tad, looking…dare I say it…lost? Perhaps tired…

"You're not hurt, are you?" I kick myself for my singular focus. _He_ was the one in the alley fighting off 5 guys with bullets flying everywhere. A quick scan reveals absolutely nothing-neither a hole nor a scratch. How is that even possible?!

 _Honk Honk!_

I tear my gaze away from the masterpiece of a suit and slowly push away from the support beam. Huh. I can feel tenderness in my ribs, but it's not nearly as painful as that initial hit. I can even breathe a little easier!

Down below, a cab is waiting just by the entrance of the building. I'm going to take a wild guess and assume it's for me…? I whirl around, "How did you—"

Silence. And emptiness.

 _Hoooooonk!_

Shit.

I hobble down the stairwell and out into the cool night air.

"Are you Dolly?" the driver, an older, no-nonsense woman, calls out.

"Yeah!"

"C'mon in, hon, before we get carjacked!"

As soon as I close the car door, I let out a short string of expletives before wailing: "My purse is gone!" how the fuck did I lose my purse but keep my glasses? More importantly, how am I gonna pay this lady?!

"It's taken care of. Now, I was told to take you to Brooklyn, but do you need me to stop at a hospital or somethin'?"

"Wh—no. No, I should be fine."

I get home safely, but I don't sleep (obviously). Instead, I pace the floors of my loft or stare blankly at the holographic computer screens in my lab, thoughts flying around in my head at hundreds of miles per hour and crashing into each other. There's no way I can work like this. I need to focus. I just need a day to get my shit straight.

After a half hour of cancelling and rescheduling obligations, I force myself to settle down into an uneasy rest. Sleep welcomes me one minute and eludes me 10 minutes later, but I finally manage to stay asleep for a good 2 hours before my eyes pop open _yet again_ , assaulted by the morning's first rays of sunlight. Maybe I should just knock myself out and get it over with.

A pop of red on the balcony outside my room has me blinking in disbelief once my eyes finally focus. Is that…?

I sprint outside into the brisk breeze, my flannel robe whipping around my ankles. Sure enough, my purse is sitting on the patio table. A rummage through assures me that everything's still there: wallet, credit card, ID, cash, phone. My lab badge was left at home and my key card that grants access to my building was in my pocket, so no need to worry about those…

 _Clink!_

And a jar of blue goop.

…Okay. Time to get to the bottom of this.


	4. 4

Just wanted to take the time to thank everyone who has followed, favorited and reviewed! All three make me geeked to continue!

 **Aviendha Aviendha Aviendha:** Thanks for your review! Yes, there are some very interesting parallels between the two "Okonkwos"; I'd be interested to pick the (comic) writer's brain on that choice!

* * *

"Whose ass do I need to kick?" Tony deadpans as soon as I open the door. The unsightly discoloration process has begun, turning my cheek _lovely_ shades of blue and purple, but the blue goop seems to be speeding it along. Cat-Man didn't leave another one of those patches, so I guess I'm wearing it until it peels off (even a shower didn't loosen the adhesive).

"Forget about it," I shrug it off.

Tony tucks his aviator shades into his Italian leather jacket pocket and surveys my place with muted interest. His wandering draws him to the twenty-foot-tall windows surrounded by exposed brick. Outside, Manhattan and the East River provide the perfect panoramic view—virtually unobstructed. The purchase of the top three floors of this historical building was not by any means cheap.

"Well, if you didn't call me here to kick someone's ass, why _am_ I here?"

"I met him."

"Who's 'him'?"

"The new 'Man Without Fear'."

"Oh." Tony's slow nod suggests a basic understanding of my statement, but then he pauses to gesture to his cheek. "He didn't—"

"No!" I roll my eyes and plop down on my sofa. "I got held up by some East Euro dude and his goons—they were asking for Murdock."

"Did you give 'em anything?"

"There's nothing to give—Murdock was ahead of the curve in terms of keeping us all in the dark. Anyway, the guy's about to put a bullet in my shoulder when Cat-Man shows up!"

For a few seconds, the only sound in the room is the heater kicking on. Tony's face is completely blank as he remarks solemnly, "Cat-Man…that's—that's his actual name…"

"Tony…"

"Cat-Man."

"Look, I don't know if that's his name—he came outta nowhere in a black suit and metal claws and cat ears—"

"Bwahaha! God, they just keep gettin' weirder and weirder—"

"He can clear a building in a single jump; he's fast as all hell; can scale a brick wall using nothing but metal claws and body weight…Tony, you should've seen that suit. Some kind of electromagnetic or biomechanical mesh or weave…the energy comin' off that thing! I couldn't tell if the suit was powering him or if he was powering the suit…I think it might have even been bulletproof!"

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm sorry, Tony—but whoever made this is—"

"Don't," Tony warns.

"—smarter than you."

"…You just had to go there."

"I'm…not the least bit sorry. I need to know more, and I was hopin' you might have some leads."

"Can't say I do, princess."

"Can't or won't?"

"…What's the difference?"

I'm done. "Get out of my house, Wonder Boy. You are so full of it."

"No need to get snappy, Doll Face," Tony retorts as he makes his retreat, "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

I'm on my tablet as soon as I push Tin Man out the door. _Step 1: Always start with the most distinguishable feature…the claws!_ Sharp enough to pierce through brick; strong enough to hold the weight of at least two people. It's either Adamantium or Vibranium… Vibranium could explain the way the suit "hummed" with energy, as well as the crazy vertical jump height and feather-light landings (it would absorb the shock). So, let's go with this Vibranium suit theory. If that's what it's made of, then the question changes: how did he get so much of it? It comes from the nation of Wakanda in Africa, and the protocols for obtaining Vibranium are _extremely_ strict. Dad had to jump through hoops just to transfer some of his to me, and he got his as a gift back in the 90s!

Did Cat-Man steal it? Is Cat-Man an ally of Wakanda? Is Cat-Man _from_ Wakanda? How long is he taking over for Daredevil? What realm does he usually protect? Who the hell was that East Euro guy?

 _One thing at a time, Dolly. First order of business: find out more about that suit._

* * *

Between working on upgrades to the X-5's operating system and the blueprints for the Nebula's new telescope and interstellar communicator, I don't have much time set aside for research. Every now and then, I scan the papers or the news channels, looking for any mention of the new Man Without Fear. Unfortunately, he's as elusive as I figured he'd be. I do see two fairly interesting stories: one about a possible serial killer shooting people, seemingly at random, and a guy who was impaled by the pole of a parking meter on the outskirts of Hell's Kitchen. Absolutely insane, yes, yet hardly out of the norm for New York these days, I guess…

When I get a spare moment, I Skype my Dad. To my surprise, he actually picks up: "Well, hello there, Dr. Knight, Jr.!"

"Hello to you, too, Dr. Knight, Sr.! How's Beijing?"

"Noisy, chaotic and absolutely breathtaking. Being watched like a hawk, of course, but so far I'm pretty much given free reign on this project…"

My eyes sweep over his face, a little sallower than his usual vibrant milk chocolate complexion, and the additional salt to his salt-and-pepper hair and beard. He's a Foreign Member of the Chinese Academy of Engineering and is currently knee-deep in some (controversial) consulting work for China's new underwater oceanic laboratory. Of course, China and the US are in a pissing match about who gets to claim what, how much information he's entitled to receive and report…that's the thing about working with two governments who, on the one hand want to foster relationships and communication while, on the other hand, are in direct competition with one another.

Too much drama.

"Hey, Dad…have you ever heard of a suit made entirely out of Vibranium?"

"Only rumors. But, given the technological advances that have come out of Wakanda in the last…hell, I'd say 5 years, it wouldn't surprise me in the least." After a moment's pause, he continues: "I can't recall anything like that ever being mentioned while I was there, but that was over 20 years ago. They've always been 10 steps ahead of the rest of the world."

"But you're saying something like that would have had to come out of Wakanda?" I press him.

"Either that, or someone made off with enough Vibranium and was lucky enough to keep their head. There've been a few crazy bastards who've invaded and made it out alive, more or less. Ulysees Klaue, for example. Made some weapons from it and sold 'em on the black market. If someone like him got his hands on a Vibranium suit…"

A shudder runs through me while Dad sips some of his coffee. A decent-sized cache of Vibranium weapons is enough for a legitimate attempt at world domination. There's a possibility of one suit out there. What if there are more? If so…who all has one?

"You okay, sweetheart?"

"Hm? Yes!" I quickly snap out of the doomsday scenarios my imagination is creating. Dad, of course, sees right through my ruse. He's the exact same way, often lost in his thoughts until someone or something breaks through the haze like a flyball through a windowpane.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it. Between those lady warriors and that black panther dude, I doubt anyone could make away with a nickel of it after the Klaue fiasco."

I nod absently…then the flyball shatters the windowpane. "What 'black panther dude'?"

"The way King T'Chaka explained it was that the Black Panther chief ruled over all the tribes in Wakanda—most notably, the Panther Tribe. In T'Chaka's case, he just so happened to be king and chief at the time of his death." At my look of confusion, he elaborates, "Klaue got greedy after his first score—came back and killed him with those weapons he created while trying to seize the mound."

Once again, I can only nod as the dread in my gut builds. _How horrible…_ Eventually, I find my voice again: "What happened after that?"

"Uh…let me think…" Dad reclines in his chair, searching the ceiling for his memories. "I…ah! T'Chaka's brother took over as king and chief since his son was too young at the time. Funnily enough, last I heard mentioned, his daughter's the one on the throne, so I'm not sure what happened there…"

 _Well…he could be running around Hell's Kitchen as a vigilante…_

I have more questions, but Dad's being summoned.

"I don't mean to cut you off, sweetie—"

"No, no, it's fine, Dad. Good luck with test trials!"

"Thank you, baby. We'll have dinner once I'm back in the States, okay?" he smiles warmly while gathering his tablet and briefcase.

"Okay, Dad. Love you."

"Love you, too. Bye-bye!"

I send him off with a wave before disconnecting, mind already revving up for more research. I need to find out more about this man, this…Black Panther. Is he the son of the king my Dad mentioned or some nut job imposter who knows his Wakandan history? More importantly, did he come by that suit legitimately or is it stolen goods? I've gotta piece this puzzle together—if there are more suits out there, that could cause major problems for Tony and the rest of the crew… Right now, my only solace is that Murdock trusts this guy enough to pass his mantle over to him while he's away. New York can rest easy. For now.

* * *

"You seem distracted. Is everything alright?" Charles queries after taking a swig of water from his water bottle.

 _The distraction is those arms and shoulders in that tank top, not to mention the sweat…no, I can't put the blame solely on him._

During times like these, it's helpful to make sure my mind's not the only part of me that's working out. When Charles suggests that I meet him at this hole-in-the-wall gym for some Muay Thai, I oblige him, even though I'm not 100% in the mood. I do feel better after a half-hour of sparring with him and picking up some much-needed pointers. His technique is impressive and he's pretty damn knowledgeable—Big Shocker. Doesn't hurt that he rocks gym clothes just as flawlessly as he does everything else, if not better…I may be (thirsty) biased at this point, though.

I release a heavy sigh to mentally prep myself for another Q&A session…

"Have you ever heard anything about a guy called the Black Panther around here?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. They say he stalks around Hell's Kitchen wearing all black and scales the walls like a cat. It sounds peculiar, but I suppose it's nothing out of the norm in this Mecca of superheroes. Why do you ask?"

"I met him."

"You met him…"

"Well…he actually got me out of some trouble a little while ago."

His frown of disappointment is unexpected—I'm instantly thrown off-guard as he angles his body on the bench to face me. My cheeks burn as his deep brown eyes rove my face; I feel like my parents were called into the Principal's office and I'm waiting for the lecture of a lifetime. _Yes, I know I shouldn't have been out there alone; yes, I know I should've called before I tried to stop by—_

"Why didn't you tell me you were in trouble?" He's obviously upset, but his approach is so gentle-like he's trying to take the sting out of the interrogation.

"…I didn't want to worry you or bring any bad publicity to you or the restaurant. Plus, it all happened so fast; I feel like I'm still trying to process everything."

"Tell me what happened."

While I leave out Murdock's part in the story, I recount everything from the set-up of the ambush to the cheap shots that asshole took in the alley (his jaw gets pretty tight during that part, but he still urges me to continue) to the sheer mayhem brought on by the Black Panther's arrival. His speed; his strength; his agility…his suit! I swear I wax poetic about that suit for 10 minutes. The Vibranium; the theories of electromagnetic enhancement versus conduits for underlying powers—

"Excuse me, but what makes you think the suit is made of Vibranium?" Charles interrupts me at one juncture.

"I had my suspicions about it, having worked with it before. The X-5 and most of the Nebula Space Station is made of a Vibranium alloy, so it can absorb heavy fire and atmospheric drag, and transform that energy into a power source. The suit had the exact same qualities, but even more concentrated. It's absolutely amazing, only…"

"…only what?"

My stomach clenches in anxiety, but the characteristic warmth in his eyes gives me some semblance of courage to voice it: "Charles, that man saved my life, but what if there are other suits out there being worn by people with…less than honorable intentions? The power behind it…if that were to fall into the wrong hands—"

"It would be cataclysmic."

"Exactly."

Charles seems to mull this over for a moment, eyes fixated to a point dead ahead. I know he grasps the gravity of the situation. But, by contrast, his tone is measured and calm as he reasons: "Based on what you've told me, the worst-case scenario is that there is an individual utilizing the power of a Vibranium suit to dole out justice to those with ill intentions. I do not believe this…Black Panther…would go to such lengths to ensure your safety if his motives were questionable. Perhaps it is best to leave him to his devices."

…He's got a point. As much as the idea of multiple Vibranium suits out there scares the shit out of me, this dude seems to be doing some good with it. I still wanna find him and pick his brain, though…

"True…I'm sorry for not telling you all this beforehand…and for bringing the mood down…shall we continue on?" I rise from the bench to stretch— "Whoa!"

Two large hands grasp my waist and pull down, making my butt collide with rock-hard quads. Before my legs can swing out from under me, a sinewy forearm pushes me upright and forms a cradle against my back.

" _Young lady…I am not finished with you yet."_

Ooh…shit just got real.

I'm _this_ close to losing it and becoming a giggly, googly-eyed mess as his hands hold me in place on his lap and his lips hover over my neck, just behind my ear. _Oh, God, not there._ Anywhere _but there! Damn it! Those lips are just as plump and as soft as they look…_

"Do I have your attention?" he inquires, speech nearly monotone.

I smother a squeal and affirm as soberly as possible: "Yes, you have my attention." A habitual glance around the sparsely occupied gym doesn't reveal any lookie-loos. While I feel exposed, the way his arms wrap around my middle makes me throw propriety to the wolves. His cologne, earthy and woodsy, mixed with the testosterone currently oozing from his pores is making it extremely hard to focus…which is probably why he speaks slowly and deliberately after my affirmation, lips never straying from their spot on my neck.

"I appreciate your concern for my livelihood and privacy, Dolly. However, I insist that you call me if you are ever in trouble again, no matter the circumstance. Furthermore, I insist that you alert me whenever you are in the vicinity so that I may safely escort you to and from Hell's Kitchen. I apologize if these requests seem unreasonable. But…seeing as you are far more important to me than… "bad publicity" …they are not to be taken lightly. With all of that being said: do you agree to these terms?"

 _Um, yes, Daddy._

"I believe the terms are reasonable; therefore, I see no reason to object. So, yes: I agree."

"Very well. Now, Dr. Knight…are you aware of the proper technique for evading an assailant with your arm in his grip?"

"Ha! If I did, I would've beat that guy's ass!"

"Come, then. I'll show you."

 _Wait, why do we have to get up? Can't he demonstrate right here? Why is it so_ hot _all of a sudden?! Thank God I have my contacts in! The fogged-up glasses look isn't all that sexy._

I think I do a satisfactory job of downplaying his effect on me: the Jell-O legs, the racing heart, the lingering sensation of his luscious lips brushing and bumping against my skin. As we come to a stand and he guides me towards the mats, I just have to chuckle at how swiftly my resolve shatters whenever I'm around him. After that...moment…there's really no point in trying to piece it back together, is there?

So much for "It's gonna be all business"!


	5. 5

**evy** : Still messing with this whole moderating reviews thing, but I wanted to let you know I saw yours; thank you!

* * *

Another shooting.

Third one in two weeks. This time, it's a woman from East Village. Left behind 2 little girls, ages 7 and 4.

It pisses me off.

Those babies lost their mother to something so utterly senseless…Come to think of it, didn't the other victims all have children?

If that's this serial killer's angle—ripping children from their mothers and fathers—that's even more disgusting. On top of that, activity in Hell's Kitchen seems to be ramping up, which has me pretty worried about my boys. Quite a few stabbings, but none so unusual as the guy who was impaled by a parking meter pole—however the fuck that happened. The police definitely have their hands full with this surge, but I don't doubt that they're getting extra help… _He_ still hasn't showed up in any of the papers or news segments, which is probably a good thing. As Charles said, it's best to leave him to his own devices. Publicity tends to put a wrench in that.

I haven't been back to Hell's Kitchen since my "ordeal"—a combination of a busy schedule and flat-out avoidance with all the crazy stories coming out of there. Charles has been swamped with the restaurant and Foggy's drowning in his current caseload. Both have advised me not to come down there, but part of me wants to get accosted just to see if _he'll_ show up and save the day again. My research keeps hitting these bizarre dead-ends. I wanna lock the guy in a room and hold him there until all my questions are answered.

 _Yeah, right. There's not a room in the world that could contain that man. Not to mention the fact that he'd mow my ass over without a second thought._

My futile search is interrupted by a brief notification of an incoming message flashing on my holographic screen. I tap "Accept" and am greeted by Lucas, the Beatnik hologram-automaton hybrid who surveils and regulates the floors of the building that I own.

" _Ms. Knight, there's a Mr. Charles Okonkwo here to see you,"_ he announces.

My address isn't as well-known as, say, Avengers Tower, but it's not that difficult to find. What prompted him to make the initiative to look me up? "Uh—send him up, please," I blurt out before I can start overthinking. Best to get the reasoning from the source.

" _Certainly, Ms. Knight."_

As the glass elevator zips from the lab down to the loft, I give the place a once-over from my bird's eye view. The cleaning service came through a couple of days ago, so it's damn near spotless. I can't help but to frown at my attire, though: a purple tank top, a bright pair of harem joggers that look like a peacock threw up all over them and an equally bright scarf doubling as a headband. _I shouldn't be too hard on myself: at least I had the sense to put a bra on this morning._

The knocks on my door are soft but concise. "Be right there!"

A grin splits my face once I see him standing in my doorway, holding a drop-dead gorgeous bouquet of red roses and white calla lilies close to his chest. His eyes are tired, yet his smile is luminous—whimsical, even.

"Dr. Okonkwo; this is a pleasant surprise." We embrace each other, careful not to crush the delicate blooms in his possession.

"I apologize for not calling ahead of time; I was in the neighborhood and wanted to see a friendly face," Charles explains as I close the door behind us. "I saw these and immediately thought of you. I hope they're to your liking."

I hide behind the fragrant petals of a rose, face flushed with embarrassment at my reaction. Believe it or not, this is the first time I've _ever_ received flowers from a man! Now I get why women swoon whenever that timeless announcement of a flower delivery is given. What makes it even better is that it's just an ordinary day. No birthday; no Valentine's Day; nothing to celebrate. He bought 'em simply because he thought I'd like 'em. He's horrible at trying to hide his proud smirk as I tell him how beautiful the flowers are and how nice he is to think of me.

"You look stunning, Dolly."

The compliment snaps me out of my silent admiration of the flowers now sitting in a vase that my mom randomly passed on to me (she'll be happy to know it's _finally_ being used!). I push my purple frames further up the bridge of my nose with a wry drawl: "No need to lie, Charles."

"You're absolutely right. Which is why I must confess that you are…how you say…'a sight for sore eyes.'"

My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, which looks stupid, so I snap it shut and purse my lips together. Seeing him stand in the middle of my living room in that impossibly stylish black and navy blazer and jeans combo like he just came from a photoshoot for GQ Magazine, telling me that I'm a "sight for sore eyes" …I don't know why, but I feel a little indignant! He's gotta be bullshittin' me.

"C'mere, Sweet Talker," I grumble. With a chuckle and a shake of his head at my sudden gruffness, he obliges. My annoyance quickly fades as I wrap my arms around his middle underneath his blazer, but still pout a little into his shirt. Insult to injury: he obviously hasn't skipped any workouts. Every ridge, every curve, every dip is even more defined than I remember. This man's an Adonis… 'cept he's African. His heartbeat is strong and steady against my ear as he fingertips draw soothing circles around my spine… yeah, fuck that whole "it's gonna be business" shit. That's officially dead. Question is…what exactly is "this"?

Recap: Last time he saw me, he told me I was more important than bad publicity and insisted on escorting me in and out of Hell's Kitchen (all the while increasing the thirst level beyond 100 as he held me hostage in his lap…is it _really_ hostage when you're cool with it?). Add today's instances of showing up unannounced with flowers, telling me I'm a "sight for sore eyes" and cozying up with me in my living room?

I know damn well what it sounds like…but how can I be sure? How can I be so comfortable around a man that, in many aspects, I don't truly know? Yes, he occasionally talks about family and home, albeit briefly. Yes, he's an absolute genius with the articles to prove it. Yes, he's lighthearted and sometimes downright jovial when I'm with him, but I notice that…sometimes, he'll catch himself and slip back into that regal impassiveness he displayed when we first met. Kinda like a "Uh-oh; I'm having too much fun—gotta keep up my African King demeanor!" reflex. It's times like these where I wonder if he, like me, is trying to keep it "all business" and is failing miserably… No…his dignified manner seems to come completely natural to him and while I'm in awe of it, of _him_ …I just wanna tell him that it's okay to take that weight off his shoulders every now and then and _relax_.

 _Rrrrrrrrr…_

I freeze against him, mortified. That would be my stomach.

"Oh…" Charles mutters over my barely concealed giggling, "we can't have _that_ , can we?"

"Preferably not."

"May I buy you lunch?"

"You may."

* * *

I slip on some lace-up espadrilles and my black leather motorcycle jacket, then we're off. It's not super warm today, but the temps are above-average and there's an increase of pedestrians out and about, enjoying the weather. Charles buys us a couple of lunch specials from Smile to Go, but we decided to wander around DUMBO for a little while first, catching up on everything that's been going on since the last time we saw each other. Next random stop is Brooklyn Bridge Park, which, Charles confesses, he has not yet had the pleasure of visiting. Luckily, I know the perfect spot: a grassy knoll just off the waterfront at Vale Lawn with an amazing view of the bridge and Manhattan on the opposite side of the river. Inwardly, I scold myself for not thinking of the lack of a bench and the man's expensive threads (I usually sit on the grass without a problem), but it proves unnecessary. This man…he takes off his blazer and lays it across the grass for me to sit on. Really? I thought people stopped doing that in the 1930s! Not that I'm complaining or anything.

We take our sweet time eating our lunches during this impromptu picnic, and a comfortable silence lapses between us as we watch the world pass us by. I spot a guy wearing an Oxford polo shirt, which triggers the random urge to ask about British sports (mainly the difference between squash and racquetball). I look over at him and the question dies on my lips.

There's that look again. Pensive. Solemn. Eyes staring a thousand years into the future and scrutinizing everything they see. But the most alarming thing is that I've never seen him look so _vexed_. Call me naïve or unrealistic, but I'm used to him having an answer for everything…

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

I'm worried that he didn't hear me or is just ignoring me… It's not my intention to overstep any boundaries, but I can't help but wonder where his head's at. I've confided in him a time or two and haven't once regretted it—he's wise beyond his years and is quite skilled in the areas of comfort and reassurance. I often ponder if there's someone in his life who provides him with the same comfort he's always giving. If not…I can at least try.

"You'll have to forgive me… it has been a trying couple of weeks. This is the first time I have had a moment's peace." His answer seems to break through the fog and bring him back to the present moment.

"Listen…if there's any way I can help—"

He clicks his tongue like an African elder—more proof that he's an old soul. "Sitting here with you…watching this beautiful sunset…"

I finally take notice of the hues of orange highlighting his smooth brown skin like urban artwork on canvas. Just how long have we been out here?

Suddenly, his eyes do that _thing._ That thing where they peer into my soul with laser focus and I have to mentally anchor myself to something, _anything_ , to avoid falling under his spell.

"I want to watch the sunset with you in my homeland."

His statement leaves me speechless for a moment; I flounder with formulating an answer. "Alright. Let's go now." _Ugh. I really should check myself before voicing unfiltered thoughts aloud._

To my surprise, he throws his head back and lets loose a belly laugh, eyes squeezed shut and teeth glinting in the sun's last rays. I quickly rack my brain—nope. This is the first time I've ever heard him laugh like this. Part of me wants to know what the hell's so funny (besides my lame ass response, I mean), but in all honesty, who cares? In this moment, he's happy and he's fucking _beautiful_.

He flings a lazy arm around my shoulders and presses his forehead to mine. "Someday, _intliziyo yam_ …someday." And, while I'm going through the limited Xhosa phrases I know to figure out what the hell he just called me, his lips pucker against the corner of my mouth—oh, sweet baby Jesus.

"What did you—mm—"

His lips cut off my line of questioning. It's the equivalent of throwing a lit match onto a pool of kerosene. Without further hesitation, I kiss him back, open my mouth to him, grasp a handful of his shirt as our tongues swirl past the barrier of each other's lips. The rest of the world is drowned out as we kiss, blissfully unhurried and uninhibited.

So, this is it. This is how I die.

He draws back, only to capture my lips a final time. I readily surrender them to him.

This is _the_ most cliché thing I have ever felt. Sparks. Fireworks. Tingles. Butterflies. Completion. No. Better than that: Fortification. My toes are curling all the way into my shoes and a shiver runs through me as he endearingly bumps his nose against mine.

"Cold?"

"Not remotely." My sardonic retort amuses him—he and I both know what that kiss did to us. I'm high-key satisfied by the way his heart is pounding against my hand. As hot as that was, I'm surprised my glasses didn't fog up…

He leans in again and I'm already puckering my lips for another round; instead, I _feel_ his murmur more than I hear it: "I should get you home before it gets too dark." I crack an eye open to glimpse the darkening sky in my peripheral. It's still early yet, so I'm unsure as to why he'd…

Wait. Is he trying to take me home or… _take me home?_

 _Shit._

Let's be real. After _that_ kiss, I'm down with whatever he wants to do. Every gentle caress and piercing gaze seems to make my body sing; make me ache for something I never realized or wasn't willing to admit I craved so desperately. Not just a fine man to break the periods of loneliness or a bed-warmer or a means of release, but a true, _complete_ connection of mind, body and soul. For some reason, though, I feel like something's just not adding up. At least not yet. As much as I like him, there's no way I'm jumping into bed with him until I get the missing piece of the equation.

"Have I said something wrong?" Charles breaks our silence. Our foreheads are once again resting against one another's, enclosing our conversation in the tiny space between our lips.

My brow furrows against him as I whisper the physically painful words: "I'm not ready to go home…not just yet."

His entire body tenses, which seems to transfer right over to me as I involuntarily squeeze the fabric of his shirt still in my fist. I should've known he'd put 2 and 2 together right away—he's a master of reading people, as well as between the lines. At the same time, the speed at which he can shield his thoughts and emotions at the drop of a dime when he wants to is …

"You thought that I meant—"

"You didn't-?"

"No."

The breath I've been holding expels itself in the form of a shaky "I'm so sorry..." My cheeks feel like they've been doused with lighter fluid and set on fire. I can't even bring myself to look at him, so I keep my eyes closed and mentally count backwards from 10 to 1, hoping the flush of shame will subside. I essentially just voiced my…distrust…indirect as it was…and I was wrong, wrong, _wrong_. Unfounded. Only thing left to do now is apologize profusely.

"You…are afraid you are becoming too comfortable around me." I hear the weariness threatening to close off his throat and can only nod, wishing he hadn't hit the nail so squarely on its head. He then releases a sigh, heavy and resigned, as his fingertips trace the shell of my ear. "So am I."

The admission whispered between us leaves me absolutely baffled. Why the impromptu visit? Why the flowers? Why the _kissing_?

 _Why the continued conversation after that unconventional first meeting? Why the anticipation of seeing his face or hearing his voice? Why the flirtation at the gym? Why the_ returning _of the kissing?_

I can't explain it. And, in an amazing turn of events, neither can he! So here we sit, silent, bewildered and afraid of each other. Strangely enough, the fact that we're both on the same page, so to speak, gives me some solace. Finally, our foreheads detach and we rise to our feet, the sunset all but forgotten.

If my mind weren't spinning, I could focus on how stereotypically quaint our trek home is. Our arms are linked at the elbow and his blazer is draped over my shoulders, even though I'm still wearing my leather jacket. DUMBO is still buzzing; the strung lights twinkle above the street as we weave through the crowds. But we don't talk. Not even when we lean against opposite sides of my doorframe, looking at everything but each other.

This is retarded.

I summon the courage to lock eyes with him and ask the question I should've asked weeks ago…mistake on my part. Both the procrastination and daring to look at him… His eyes aren't doing the "thing", but their inquisitiveness makes me waver.

"…What is this, Charles?"

"I don't know, Dolly." His voice rumbles like distant thunder. "I simply ask that whatever 'this' is, we figure it out together."

 _In other words, don't jump to conclusions without getting the entire story. Fair enough._

"Hm?" Head playfully inclined, Charles raises his eyebrows and rests a hand just above my hip to break me out of overanalyzing mode. I drop my head with a smirk, but then he's tilting my chin up, charming smile on display.

"Yeeeeess; agreed," I make a show of rolling my eyes up into my head as far as they'll go. His snicker is slightly higher in pitch than is normal as he swoops in for a kiss, taking his sweet time peeling his lips from mine. It's short and sweet compared to our first kiss, but that doesn't stop my body from reacting; nor does it let me ignore the fact that we're right outside my loft and all I'd need to do is "innocently" invite him in—nope. Nope, nope, nope. I'm sticking to my personal promise and our newly minted agreement. No more miscalculations.

"I have one more thing to ask of you…"

"What do you want, Charles?"

He laughs at my long-suffering sigh, hands raised in surrender. "I just wanted to know if you wished to accompany me to Smalls Jazz Club next weekend to take in a concert!"

"Oh! Then yeah, I'd love to!"

"Excellent; I'll be sure to send you the details later this week."

"Okay."

I hand him back his blazer and watch him disappear around the corner from inside my loft before locking the door behind me. The lights automatically flicker to life as the sensors detect my movement. "Any messages, Lucas?"

His smooth baritone voice is prompt in answering: _"Yes, Ms. Knight—from Judith Martinez aboard the Nebula Space Station."_

An image of the loveable, hilarious mission specialist pops up on my flat screen TV. Her Norteño accent is heavy as she speaks, but her English is fluid and crisp.

"Hi, Boss Lady! I'm sorry to bother you at home, but the telescope has detected some unusual gamma ray activity in quadrant SGQ3. We haven't seen anything like it so we thought you'd want to take a look and let us know your thoughts. Kaleo and I just sent the spectrometer readings and some captures, which I'm sure you'll have shortly. Until then, we'll wait for your orders. Miss you; bye!"

Unusual gamma ray activity? Better go up to the lab for this one.

As Lucas uploads the data, I slowly spin around in my desk chair trying to form a couple of preliminary hypotheses. With alien races and gods flying around up there, engaging in intergalactic travel almost daily, it's not uncommon to see some action in the form of spikes of gamma ray bursts. My team's well aware of the established baseline for "normal" activity—something big must be going on for them to contact me at home.

 _"The spectrometer readings are now available—the captures are still loading,"_ Lucas informs me.

"Thanks, Lucas." The numbers are projected on to my desk; I spread my hands outward to zoom in. Right away, I spot the anomalies.

That can't be right.

Is the spectrometer glitching out on us? I make a mental note to request that a diagnostic be run.

 _"A total of four captures are now available for viewing."_

"Gotcha. Can you get the lights?"

 _"Certainly, Ms. Knight."_

The captures float above my head in the center of the lab; the light from the gamma rays bathes the entire room in a pale blue glow, which lets me know that this explosion was massive! The coordinates from the first capture put it at 100,000 light years away. Second capture: 96,000 light years. Third capture: 60,000 light years. Fourth capture: 85,000—wait, what?

I chew on my bottom lip for a moment while contemplating the next step of fleshing out the story. "Link captures 1 through 4, enhance by 10,000 and then set in motion. Actually, I'll need detailed mapping and a 360 view as well."

 _"Applying parameters now."_

I'm surrounded by the entire quadrant now, with known stars and planets conveniently mapped with codes that I can reach out and grab/move if I need to. To my left, I see the initial explosion (although I have no idea what triggered it), but then my jaw drops as I watch it shoot past me in a concentrated stream, completely nuking any celestial body unlucky enough to be in its path. A chain reaction of supernovae! If I wasn't equal parts fascinated and terrified before, my eyebrows nearly shoot up into my hairline as I watch the gamma ray burst recede back to its unknown source like a snake slithering to its hiding place. Simulated annihilation is all around me. Several civilizations gone. The Calurnians and the Fonabi for sure. They wouldn't have seen it coming…

"Lucas…call Judith."

 _"One moment."_

I make sure to fix my face into something resembling a calm front before her face pops up on a new holographic window. Behind her, I spot Kaleo Tuitama and Zach Woodsley (who look nothing alike but are still called "the Man-Bun Twins"). They, along with Judith, are responsible for monitoring the telescope and collecting data from the images and readings. I can see the anxiety in their faces as they wave at me.

"Hey, guys. How's it goin' up there?" I ask.

"Good," they chorus, and Kaleo adds with a shrug, "Besides this, it's been pretty normal."

Zach's ocean-blue eyes widen as he shakes his head in disbelief. "I have never seen anything like this—didn't even know it was possible."

As they all nod in agreement, only thing I can think is: _you and me both!_

"It is unusual, but I wanna get some additional eyes on the activity—that's gonna be the main priority. You guys continue to monitor the telescope and spectrometer—hourly, if you can—and I'll send a message through the ISN's frequency. Lucas, add Joselle."

The tall, brown-skinned woman's face pops up seconds later. Even though the situation is weighty, I just have to give her kudos: "Girl, that hair is fierce!" It's a sleek, Halle Berry-esque pixie cut that showcases her poppin' cheekbones and hazel eyes to a T.

"Thanks, Boss!" she cheeses before getting right down to business. "What'cha need?"

"I need you to initiate contact with recipient India-Sierra-November-2-6-1-7-Papa-Quebec. I'll be sending the message in a few minutes."

"Got it!"

"And just…keep me posted."

"Will do."

"Bye, Boss!"

Once we disconnect, I collapse into my chair, eager to take off the "reassuring boss" cap. I record my short but urgent message using my tablet and send it as a secure attachment. Joselle won't be able to view it, but the recipient should have the password to unlock it. I know that my crew can keep classified information to themselves, but there's no need to get them any more worried than they already are. Not until we get more details.

As I recline in my chair and massage my temples, I whine: "And this day was going so well…!"


	6. 6

So sorry for the delay in updates; this one's nice and long for y'all (that's what she said, lol).

* * *

For the first time in a while, I take a selfie.

Afro stretched and wound into a regal updo of chunky twists.

Slinky black slip dress with razor-thin straps and not a stitch of fabric in the back.

Fire engine red lip.

Grandma's emerald pendant necklace and stud earrings.

No glasses.

I post it to Instagram, no filters, with a simple caption: "Date Night." Then I slip on my heels, grab my clutch and head out into another unusually warm night—no coverup necessary.

As my Uber crawls through the Village, I smother the feeling of dread that accompanies waiting for the other shoe to drop. The Nebula hasn't had anything to report since that unusual gamma spike, which has us all scratching our heads. Even Charles rubbed his bearded chin when I replayed the simulation for him in my lab and contemplated aloud: "What would cause such an anomaly?" I haven't received a reply from the message I sent through the ISN, either…hopefully dumbass hasn't gotten himself killed.

The only other "off" thing that happens is the temporary closure of Smalls Jazz Club due to the pipes bursting and flooding the place. We ditch that plan and decide to hit up Zinc instead, which is just as well—Lorraine Klaasen is on the marque tonight. She's a South African jazz vocalist, so I already know the music's gonna be good. I'm so ready to dance.

As always, Charles is already standing outside of the club, even though I'm a few minutes early. Sometimes I wonder if he's ever been late for anything in his life. He probably even popped out of his mama's womb on the exact due date, if not earlier. What's interesting is that his attire contains a distinct Pan-African influence that I've never seen on him before, apart from the gold tooth pendant he always wears: a black, modernized dashiki with intricate patterns of gold thread and beads embroidered into the fabric. More than likely silk. He's in the middle of what looks to be a spirited discussion with a couple of patrons, their colorful Pan-African ensembles a stark contrast to his black and gold. They're riveted by whatever story he's weaving as his large hands gesture animatedly yet pointedly, eyebrows raising at the exact moment he drives his point home. But then his face relaxes into that youthful grin as they laugh at whatever he said. He's so good with people.

Alright; enough "spying."

He pauses once he sees me approaching and I catch his eyes widening by just a fraction. Almost like when a deer spots a car coming. I want to stop, but I keep myself from freezing at the last second (like a G, ha ha) and greet him like I hadn't noticed. "Hi!"

His lips slowly morph into a lopsided grin. "Hi."

"…Everything alright?"

"…Absolutely."

…Okay; what happened to Mr. African Dignitary? I know I don't have anything in my nose or on my teeth (cause it's a lip _stain_ —I'm not makin' that rookie mistake) and this dress is nip-slip proof, so…

"Well, let's go in—I've been lookin' forward to this all week!" Without asking, I link arms with him and take a step forward to remind him that the stairs that lead down to the club are straight ahead. "You look amazing, by the way. I feel dumb—I could've broke out my kente cloth or somethin'!"

He briefly looks down at me, chuckling as if a private joke was just told. "What you are wearing…is more than sufficient."

Normally I wouldn't take that as a compliment, but the way his voice seems to glide over every inch of my exposed skin has me feeling warm all over. _This man…_

* * *

Lorraine Klaasen's voice reminds me of a trumpet. Brash, yet pure. Powerful and unapologetic. A siren that attracts natives and descendants of the Motherland like flowers to bees. I don't understand much Xhosa, but I still _feel_ her message. The entire room is buzzing with pride. Feet stomp, hips wind, hands clap and fingers snap as if possessed by her voice and the drums. Everyone moves effortlessly—as if it's in our very blueprint.

She is short in stature, but still commands the room like a queen as she grooves in her bright red dashiki and headwrap, big gold earrings and necklace dancing along with her. Her band is on _point_ ; the rhythms and happy melodies evoking images and memories of _home._ I glance over at Charles and his eyes are closed for a moment as she belts acapella in Xhosa; her lyrics make him smile to himself. Then the beat drops and we're all bouncing and swaying in time with the percussion.

Of course he can dance. He got skills (as do I; don't get it twisted). It's just…man, I don't know how or why he keeps surprising me whenever he decides to "let loose", but the way he move them hips—especially on me—got me wonderin' what's _really_ good. The angel on my right shoulder is wagging her finger at me for thinking about breaking my promise to myself already. The devil on my left shoulder's reminding me to use a rubber. For this reason, I'm extremely careful with my alcohol consumption—just one cocktail and then nothing but club soda with lime. I mean…it doesn't help much when his hand is splayed against my bare back while we're dancing pelvis to pelvis, but…better than nothin'.

It's after midnight when the set is finished and we venture out into the night to hail a cab. The windows are rolled down a bit so we can air out from all that dancing. Next stop is a restaurant— _any_ restaurant. I do have a craving for the chicken salad I ate when we first met, so I casually suggest Devil's Kitchen.

To my surprise, he agrees. "I think that's doable."

"Whaaat? You mean I'm no longer banned from Hell's Kitchen?"

"I never said you were _banned_ ," he comically drags out the last word, "I simply requested that you allow me to escort you to and from Hell's Kitchen. Which I am!"

"My bad; yes, you are."

He reaches over and gently pinches a bit of skin from my shoulder between his fingers. I let out a dramatic "Oww!" and rub my arm as he laughs at my overacting: "Stop it!"

The driver just might have to separate us.

* * *

An incoming storm from out of nowhere is advancing on us as the taxi comes to a stop in front of Devil's Kitchen.

"Perhaps we should make this a carryout order," Charles suggests as we duck into the restaurant. The wind is starting to pick up, putting a damper on the unusually muggy night.

"And go where?"

"My apartment is not far from here. We can at least be comfortable while we wait for the storm to pass."

Brian the Cook whips up two huge chicken salads and is sure to add extra croutons on the side. I've never really had the chance to talk to staff here, but he seems like a cool guy. Younger than us, tough and gruff on the outside, but secretly gooey like a cookie on the inside. We rush out into the wind and sprinkles of rain, jogging in our nice footwear even though our feet are surely aching. Luckily, his building is about two blocks away. It's an old five-floor walkup that's pretty typical for this part of town. We duck into the lobby not a moment too soon: the sky opens up and we breathlessly laugh at our timing as we watch the rain pelt everything in torrential sheets.

"Come; we'll take the elevator."

He hums the melody of one of the songs we heard at the club as the elevator crawls to the 4th floor. Seamlessly, the humming morphs into quiet singing. His voice is actually kinda nice; each phrase starts and ends with a rough but pleasant rasp, occasionally punctuated by the famous clicks of his native tongue. I watch him out the corner of my eye and wonder if he's even aware that he's singing—there's a dreamlike quality to his voice that reminds me of people talking in their sleep. All of a sudden, he turns to me and starts beatboxing the rhythm, hips bumping and winding. Shit, I'm not shy—I pop my hips right along with him, completely forgetting that my feet hurt as I bust out some of the footwork he showed me back at the club. The elevator dings, but that ain't stoppin' our dance party. I follow his lead as we quietly strut down the hallway (it is after midnight after all) to a door marked 407 all the way at the end.

"Whoo!" he hoots, but then cringes at his volume. "You are a good dancer. I like the way you move."

"You surprised? _'She's well-versed in binomial approximation: you know she has no rhythm,'_ " I mimic his accent, which makes him snort. Yes, _snort_.

"No, no, no…I had absolutely no doubt that you could dance. I watch you walk sometimes and I'm curious as to what song is playing in your head—I want to dance, too."

He unlocks the door and makes his way in first to flip the lights on. "Please, come in."

What I see is _definitely_ not what I expect.

This is what a restaurant manager's salary gets you?

Actual space. Hardwood floors. A fireplace. A full, open kitchen. A fucking _terrace_. It's modest, yet clean and inviting, filled with second-hand furniture that's obviously well-cared for. The color scheme is rich and deep, and it seems like every wall houses a shelf stuffed to capacity with books. A scholar's pad. Charles migrates over to the kitchen, where he sets our bags on a small island counter, and produces a bottle of wine from a cabinet.

"Please, make yourself at home. Perhaps I can give you a tour before we eat."

I'd already taken my shoes off and left them on the mat by the front door, so I don't feel as bad for padding around his living area in my bare feet. I'm automatically drawn to the sliding glass doors that lead out to the terrace. The rain is beating against them and distorting the view—it almost looks like Hell's Kitchen is drowning. I'm sure the view is gorgeous whenever the weather's cooperative. I can easily imagine him sitting at the little patio set, nose deep in a book, while nursing a cup of tea. Very picturesque.

The steady cadence of rain is briefly drowned out by the sound of the sink running. Charles washes his hands before he sets to the task of extracting the to-go containers from the plastic bags and then transferring the salads to two decently-sized artisan bowls. I scoot behind him to wash my own hands. Stainless steel sink. Stainless steel everything for that matter. Granite countertops. As I dry my hands on a microfiber towel, he reaches around me to grab a wine opener from the drawer right next to me.

"Would you like a glass?"

I shrug. Why the hell not? "Sure."

He then pulls two wine glasses from the cabinet above my head, his front briefly brushing against my back. Yeah, I could move. To be polite, I should move. We barely make contact, yet, I can feel his heat radiate into my skin and I'm not the least bit sorry about it. I'm sure he knows it, too—I peep how he lingers a moment longer than is necessary. It may just be all in my head, but I swear I arch my back a few centimeters. If he were to push up on me…

 _Danger zone._ I'mma have to be _real_ careful with this wine.

* * *

He doesn't own this two-bedroom, two-bathroom penthouse apartment—he's just subletting from an acquaintance who is currently out of the country on business and won't be back until his contract is up in another six months. This makes sense to me—to be honest, he'd have to be slangin' dope on the side to be able to afford monthly rent. As it is, he's only responsible for half of it. A pretty cush deal, if I do say so myself. All the furniture belongs to the acquaintance, but a lot of the books are his. So is the computer in the second bedroom, which is more office space than anything. The main bedroom is sparsely decorated in shades of blue, but still cozy-looking. Another sliding glass door leads out to the terrace from here. The bathrooms are small, yet quaint with classic white porcelain fixtures. There's even a nice little window in one of 'em (with a curtain, of course) that lets you look out at the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen. All in all, a very nice place for a killer deal.

We sit on stools at the island counter and eat our salads without much conversation between us—at least not until the food's gone. There's a huge piece of sweet potato pie still in the bag, which I _definitely_ didn't order, but we decide to wait until dinner settles before splitting it.

"I'm gonna have to go to the gym after it's all said and done," I recline against the counter's lip and take a sip of wine. Red. Full-bodied, but not dry. Nice selection!

"We should go together. You haven't sparred with me in quite some time!" Charles cocks an eyebrow that could easily be read as admonishing.

"See, there's a reason for that—I get my ass handed to me every single time! God forbid I get into some real trouble again—I'd be useless."

Charles simply shakes his head while swallowing a sip. "No. You are stronger than you realize. You are also highly analytical, which can lend itself tactical measures used during a fight— _if_ you can stop admitting defeat before you even begin."

Well, damn. He sure read me.

"Okay, in my defense, it's one thing to 'practice' fighting with you, but it's a whole 'nother story when you're held up in an alley by five dudes—"

"And you could beat them all one by one with enough training. You already have the advantage of not appearing as a threat to your assailants. They become arrogant and drop their guards. It is up to you to determine the opportune moment in which to strike and never let up until you are free. But you must keep a level head. You are very good at thinking on your feet and following the next logical step. You must apply these skills whenever you are sparring."

I nod, 'cause I get the gist of it. However, I've always been a hands-on learner. "Show me."

He quickly swallows another sip. "Pardon?"

"I'm sorry; can you please show me?" I adjust my tone. Don't wanna be bossy.

"Now?"

"Sure, why not?"

His response is an "Ehhhhh…" as he openly scans my attire.

"Got any sweatpants? I'll slip 'em on underneath this dress. See? Thinkin' on my feet already. C'mon, please?"

"Alright. If only to humor you."

"Yes! Let's do this!"

I honestly don't know why I'm so pumped about fighting. It's probably not even about that. It's more about the excitement and anticipation that comes with testing a new theory for the first time. Hopefully this one will get me "unstuck" and I can have a fighting chance for once—no pun intended.

He comes back with a pair of black PUMA joggers that I have to roll up a little even though they taper at the ankle and cinch them around my waist as far as they'll go. Then he pushes the couch, recliner and coffee table to the far corners of the room, leaving just the large throw rug and the hardwood floors. I step into the "arena", heart pounding with nervousness but feeling a little more hopeful than I usually am before sparring with him. That is, until he draws himself up to his full height as he steps in, eyes locking with mine. Looking so… _predatorial_. Just as my spine stiffens, he speaks:

"Your first instinct is fear. I can see it manifesting in your body."

 _Damn_.

"It's alright…do you trust me?"

Mama always told me that it ain't a matter of if you trust another—it always comes back to trust in yourself. My skills in this area are pretty limited (I leave that shit up to my Avenger buddies), but I trust in my determination to push past fear and to fend for myself—I've _always_ been able to count on that. Therefore, my answer is more of a self-affirmation: "Yeah."

"Then close your eyes."

I comply. Automatically, my other senses tune into my surroundings to compensate. The rain beating staccato rhythms against the sliding doors. The feel of the plush floor rug beneath my feet (hope we don't get rug burn…). The receptors just beneath my skin, tingling, searching for anyone nearby, waiting for touch. The _click_ of a light switch. The warm glow behind my eyelids is cut off. All I can see is black. Footsteps quietly creaking on the hardwood. I can feel the floor vibrate under his steps as he comes closer. The skin on my shoulder nearly crackles and I shrink back just as his hand makes contact.

"Did you feel that?" he asks.

"Your hand?"

"More importantly, your body warning you that my hand was going to touch you."

"Yes."

"If honed properly…that can be one of your greatest assets in combat."

His footsteps shift—he's off to my side ...now he's behind me—circling me? My skin latches on to his body heat signature, on the static electricity between us. Again, I sense his hands reaching for my neck before they make their mark. It's a creepy sensation that has me spinning around to grab his wrists.

" _Eyes closed."_

I obey, though my eyebrows furrow at the harsh edge in his whispered command, which he smoothens over, voice suddenly like salve on a wound.

"Instincts, _intliziyo yam_. No matter how afraid you are…trust them always. Now…open your eyes."

I slowly crack them open. The apartment is completely dark, save for the light from the street lamps shining through the windows, casting moving waterfall shadows on the floor. He's still behind me, breaths deep and steady, waiting…

A hand shoots out and grabs my forearm to twist my shoulder into submission. My free elbow slams into his solar plexus and one of my heels lands a kick to his shin, giving me just enough time to wind my way out of his grip. Inwardly, I wince as he quickly regains his balance and rubs the spot where I elbowed him, something foreign flashing in his eyes. Fuck, what did I do—no! Instincts. Instincts and logic and confidence. Instincts and logic—

Charles drops down into a crouch to sweep my legs out from under me with a swift kick. I jump back, startled by the sheer speed—alright, he's not goin' easy on me. _Think!_ Okay, I'm down; he's down—just keep _moving._ We circle each other, crouched over like creatures. Whenever I feel like he's getting too close, my hand shoots out to try and throw him off balance, if only for a second. I know he's calculating my every move, which fills me with a dual sense of urgency and dread. He's the more experienced fighter—I'm well aware that he could end this fight right here and now if he wanted to—

 _Admitting defeat before you even begin._

I'm on the ground before I can even blink. The wind leaves my body in a harsh grunt. Can't let him get the upper hand! My thighs lock around his midsection and squeeze with all their might. I shove my crossed forearms against his throat and roll us onto our sides. Unfortunately, his momentum is stronger and I wind up on my back, underneath him and the floor, with his forearm against my windpipe.

 _Stay calm._ Next logical step. Gotta put those arms out of commission. What do I always tell myself? No such thing as a crazy idea…that's a lie, but it always makes me feel better.

I grip his forearm in both hands and swing my legs up and over into a backwards somersault. His muffled exclamation as my back smushes his faces triggers a twinge of guilt—that probably hurt…Fuck it, I'm free! I scramble into position—thighs holding him in a chokehold. Then I grab his arm and twist—just like he planned for me; just like that asshole in the alley ended up doing. He doesn't scream like I did, but his entire body tenses as he seethes.

"Enough," he taps my thigh with the hand that was trying to fend off the chokehold. My limbs slowly unravel to release him, burning from their efforts. Chest heaving, I stare up at the ceiling in disbelief, not quite sure what to do next. Celebrate 'cause I actually managed to defend myself? Pout 'cause he probably let me win? Apologize for smashing his face?

Meanwhile, his chest is making my thigh bounce up and down from his silent laughter. "I will…I will have to use that move!" He eventually cackles.

I snarl, suddenly feeling territorial. "Nuh-uh! That's my move!"

"A good fighter always learns from his or her opponent…as you obviously demonstrated with that chokehold. It was done to you; therefore, you absorbed and applied it during a later challenge," he gently cradles me against his side. My eyes drift shut as his fingertips indulge in their favorite pastime of tracing circles around my spine—only this time, the contact is skin-to-skin: dangerously delicious.

"Do I get a prize for winning this round?" I find myself questioning.

Even as he answers, my legs are intertwining with his: "You may have whatever you desire."

One peck on the lips is all it takes.

I don't know if it's the adrenaline from the fight, his fingers' ministrations or the abrupt flashback of us rolling around on the floor while my legs hold his waist in an iron grip. But our kiss is bordering on desperate. Lips smacking. Tongues wrangling. Teeth clicking. And then I'm back on my back and he's back in between my legs which are squeezing him, pressing him against create more of that addictive friction. On a whim, I push on his shoulder to roll us over. Now I'm on top, straddling his hips as his nails rake the exposed skin on my back. Then I bite him—I actually bite him! My teeth nip at the skin on his neck, just above his collarbone, before soothing it with a lazy drag of my tongue, drawing out a prolonged hiss from him. His hips surge upward before rolling slowly, deliberately, hinting at something… _very_ promising. I gasp against his lips as he pants into my mouth, eyes screwed shut:

" _Intombi engaluganga."_

His add-on of "Eh?" is punctuated by a stinging slap to my ass, which makes me release the moan I was so desperately trying to suppress.

Jesus, I've gone crazy. Since when am I like this?

 _Since he turned you on like this, that's when._

I'm supposed to get the missing piece of the formula before we do this.

 _You want him. You care about him. He wants you. He cares about you._ Subtract _unnecessary values_ — _don't_ add _them_.

"We do not have to do this."

His declaration, gravelly with need, snaps me back to the present. My face is buried in his neck. It's there that I finally admit: "I want you."

"And you can have me. Whenever you'd like. It does not have to be now."

I use his broad chest as leverage to push myself up. His eyes are heavily-lidded, but his gaze gradually sharpens into polished onyx as he sits up, still cradling my lower half against him. The question "Why not now?" must be written all over my face. So, he answers: "You hesitate… I will not try to persuade you to ignore this for the sake of bedding you. When we make love, I want your full permission and trust. For I promise you: there will be no turning back, and the last thing I want you to feel is regret."

I can't help but smile as our foreheads rest against each other. Don't get me wrong, my baser instincts are screaming at him to just get inside of me, but his words fill me with a warmth that has absolutely nothing to do with our current state (well… _almost_ nothing). He's painted a picture of unrestrained bliss, all hinging on unwavering trust—something that's important to me, whether I choose to acknowledge that right now or not. It'll always be there. It's a relief to know that it's equally okay to want him and to wait for…as he put it, the opportune moment.

 _Knock knock knock_.

We both freeze.

I clap a hand over my mouth—I can't believe we're in here thinking that our activities were silent! I'll bet his neighbors are _pissed_!

"Ah. That might be my downstairs neighbor," Charles mutters over my chortling. "These floors are reinforced with concrete, but there might have been a couple of bumps that were too loud to ignore."

 _Knock knock knock._

"I'm alright, Mr. Nantakarn; I simply stubbed my toe on my desk!" he shouts with a sly grin. I slap his shoulder and mouth, " _You are so_ bad!"

 _Knock knock knock knock knock!_

His brow creases as he lifts me from his lap. My body whines at the loss of contact, but I stay put on the floor and try to pin a wayward twist back up into my up-do. The door opens and my ears immediately pick up his rapid switch to Xhosa. Whoever his guest…scratch that, guests are, they are obviously also fluent, speaking to him in hushed tones and clicks.

A man and a woman, both with skin the color of polished ebony, dressed in trendy, yet understated activewear. Charles turns the lights on and it seems to reflect off the woman's bald head like a mirror. Her eyes scan the apartment, obviously confused by the furniture pushed around every which way, until she spots me sitting on the floor. Her eyebrows shoot up and her gaze narrows to slits soon afterwards…around the same time the guy notices me.

 _You'd better say something before this gets awkward._

"Hello," I come to a stand and wave.

"Hello," the man greets, seemingly caught off-guard. The woman is now examining my slip dress and men's joggers with some trademark Side-Eye. Like a jilted wife/girlfriend. Or an overprotective sister.

"Dolly, these are my cousins Samuel and Sophia. They just arrived from the Congo. Cousins: this is Dolly Knight."

Recognition quickly flashes on both faces. "Ay, yes," Samuel slowly nods. "The famous American scientist. Charles has always spoken highly of your work." I jog over to shake his offered hand. My twist falls right back into my face, which I quickly try to bat away before shaking Sophia's. Her grip is unbelievably strong, yet her voice is cool and regal as she smiles: "A pleasure to meet you."

I fight back a wince as she squeezes my hand. "Likewise."

"Forgive us, cousin. We would have called, but the news we bring is somewhat time-sensitive—" he glances over at me, a frown marring his smooth complexion "—family emergency, unfortunately; so we came here straight from the airport."

"I'm sorry to hear that! Let me get out of you guys' way." I start gathering my clutch and heels still sitting by the door.

"How will you get home?" Charles inquires.

"Same way I always do: Trusty Uber!" I reply with a mock salute.

"I will wait with you until it arrives— _Ndiza kubuya msiyane, abazala."_

Samuel graciously inclines his head in response to whatever was said before waving at me. "It was nice meeting you, Ms. Knight." Sophia politely nods, but the smirk on her face speaks volumes: _If anything happens to him, I will hunt you down._

I've seen that glint in the eyes before: she will _cut_ me.

"It was nice meeting you both; good night!"

Once Charles closes the door behind us and we board the elevator, I finally allow myself to cringe."Shit, that was embarrassing!"

"It was not," Charles reassures me.

"Stop tryin' to sugarcoat—you know exactly how bad that looked," I grumble as he gathers me into his arms and kisses my brow.

"Mm. At least your clothes were _on_ , dear. Not to mention that you are spared from walking around with a very _visible_ reminder of what just transpired between us."

I peck the spot on his neck where I'd bitten him, even though I know damn well that's not what he's referring to. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?" he retorts right before I kiss the corner of his mouth. "You are teasing me?"

My cute little nod and giggle dies a quick death when he grabs handfuls of my ass and presses himself against me. He's right: his...reminder...hasn't gone anywhere.

"Do not toy with me, Ms. Knight."

Before I can clap back, his lips envelop mine and my hands grasp at his tunic and he hoists me up and my legs wrap around his waist and the elevator dings—

"C'mon; you can't hit the emergency button like everyone else?"

I tear my lips away from his and jump down, "I am so sorry!"

The white lady standing just outside the elevator doesn't seem the least bit perturbed—in fact, she's trying not to laugh her ass off.

"My apologies, Iris. You're coming in rather late," Charles nonchalantly straightens his tunic.

She runs a hand through her blonde hair streaked with gray, the lines of her careworn face twisting into a grimace. "Caseload's been kickin' my ass lately. But hey: it's part of the work. I'm Iris, by the way—Charles's neighbor on the second floor."

"Dolly; nice to meet you."

"Same to you. Well, don't let me disturb you two lovebirds. I'll just take the stairs. Good night!"

"Have a pleasant evening." I can tell he wants to do the chivalrous thing and offer up the elevator, but she's gone before he can even get the words out. Second time around being interrupted—no less embarrassing than the first.

"Oh, my God!" I nearly choke on my laughter as I request an Uber on the app. "The universe just does not want us to get it in tonight! And how come you're so calm and collected about it? She acted like she sees you with women in elevators all the time!"

"You are the first woman she has seen me with. I find that the more I react to a faux pas, the more people tend to talk about it. Hence my 'calm and collected' demeanor."

"Touché. She a lawyer?"

"No, she is a social worker." _Oh. Explains the obvious stress._

"Okay. And your downstairs neighborhood is Mr. Natam—Nantark—"

"Mr. Nantakarn. He has a son named Alec. I occasionally bring him along to the gym to spar." _Ahh, so I'm not his only student._

"You should open a gym," I muse aloud. "You got the market cornered for people needing self-defense lessons around here."

His shrug is noncommittal. "Perhaps."

It's still raining hard outside, so we stay dry in the comfort of the small, dark entranceway, leaning against the door frame. We're simply two silhouettes making out shamelessly until the sound of a car pulling up regrettably breaks our embrace.

"Call me as soon as you are home," he mutters between one last kiss.

"I will. Thank you for tonight."

"You are most welcome."

I pause before opening the door...then I step out of my heels.

"What are you doing?"

My answer is a swift tug of his joggers down my legs. I toss them his way, step back into my heels and dash out into the rain. It isn't until I'm safely inside the car that I give him a knowing wink and smirk. He shakes his head, eyes suddenly interested in the floor beneath him—if I didn't know any better, I'd say he's _blushing_ —but then he waves until the car is no longer in his line of sight. I melt into the heated leather seats; into the memories of tonight; into the fire pooled deep in my belly from our parting kiss; into the residual warmth from his joggers and caring words.

 _Call me as soon as you are home_.


End file.
